


The Guilty Ones

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Castiel, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas takes some bad news very poorly, and Dean doesn't do a great job of making things better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guilty Ones

"Look, Cas." Dean hesitates, fingers drumming nervously over the surface of the kitchen table. Castiel sits across from him, waiting expectantly. He looks so hopeful, so glad to be back in the bunker, if only for a short while (because god knows Ezekiel would throw a fit if he stayed longer than to find a newer, safer apartment/ a place of employment not tracked down by the angels.)

"You know Kevin's been working on those tablets?"

"I'm aware."

"Yeah. Well, it… hasn't been going so great. Ancient languages, long dead tongues, you know the deal. So… well, we kind of got Crowley to help out."

Castiel raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything. Dean nods and rambles on, "It wasn't a great idea, I know, but we were kinda pressed for options, and Crowley… we don't think he was lying. Nothing Kevin's been able to get done since then suggests that what he told us wasn't true—"

"Dean. What did he tell you?"

Dean sighs. He looks at Castiel and says slowly, "He told us that the spell that you – that Metatron performed, it's irreversible. We can't get your grace back, Cas."

All at once, it's as if a shade has been yanked down over Castiel's face. His eyes turn blank, and he sits up slowly. "Well."

"It's still possible Crowley lied. And we're not gonna stop trying. Trying to re-angel you, I mean. But Sam said you deserved to know, and I guess I agreed with him."

"I agree as well. Thank you for telling me this, Dean." Castiel stands up and pushes in his chair. His arms are held stiffly by his side, and he looks over Dean's head as he speaks.

"No problem." Dean gets up and awkwardly claps Cas on the shoulder. "Chin up. Human life's not so bad, hey?"

"No," Castiel agrees, still staring distantly in the direction of the kitchen sink. "I think I'll go… read. Goodbye, Dean."

Dean doesn't think he's seen Castiel pick up a book once during his entire stay at the bunker, but Cas is taking this well, and he doesn't want to press the point. "Bye."

Cas walks quickly out of the kitchen. Dean watches him go, and then wanders off to find Sam.

He finds his brother in the living room on his laptop. Without preamble he says, "I told him."

"Did you?" Sam looks up from the screen and frowns. "How'd he take it?"

"Pretty well. I mean, he didn't flip out or anything." Dean shrugs. This whole experience has left him feeling shaky, with a lump in his throat that makes it hard to talk. "I don't know."

"About as well as we can hope for, I guess." Sam sighs. "You going to go check on him, or…?"

"Nah. I mean, I think he wanted to be alone. I'm gonna go to the target range, I think."

Sam nods. Dean's grateful that Sam knows better than to press, to make some comment about Dean defaulting to shooting shit when things get uncomfortable. "Yell if you need me."

"Of course."

Dean doesn't think about much on his way to grab a gun. The door to Cas's room is shut, and he convinces himself to not slow down as he walks past it. Cas is used to bad news. This is nothing to worry about.

Then he steps into his room, takes one look at the weapons' rack on his wall, and immediately comes to the conclusion that he should, in fact, be pretty damn worried.

Dean doesn't even notice which rifle is missing as he grabs his pistol and books it down the hall.

"Cas!" He pounds on the door, not even feeling the pain of impact in his knuckles. "Open the fucking door, Castiel!"

When no sound comes out, he takes the pistol, aims at the knob, and shoots until the jamb is disintegrated and the door swings open. He tosses the pistol aside (disregarding every rule about gun safety that his father ever taught him) and bolts inside.

Castiel sits frozen on his bed, one of Dean's guns in his hand. His face is pale and empty. On the floor next to him, his bedside lamp is smashed.

Dean's mind blanks out and his entire world reduces to Castiel and the weapon that he holds. His rage forms a sort of white noise in his head as he crosses the room and snatches the gun out of Castiel's hands. He tosses it aside as carelessly as he did with the pistol.

It discharges, and Castiel jumps, and for some reason, that's what does it for Dean. The fury in his mind is hot and crackling, raging through his blood and powering his actions.

He grabs Castiel by his shirt collar and slams him against the wall. "Don't you fucking _dare_ ," he snarls. "Suicide? Fucking _really_ , Cas? What, so you make a huge deal about how you fell for humanity, you sacrificed everything to stop the Apocalypse and keep us safe – and then the minute you're faced with being one of us for the rest of your shitty mortal life, you just give up? You're fucking _pathetic_."

Castiel's hands were clawing at Dean's hands to get him to release his grip, but as soon as the last sentence comes out, they still. Castiel stares at Dean, looking shattered. His eyes are wide, and unshed tears reflect the room's awful fluorescent lights.

Dean lets go, and Castiel sinks to the floor. He sits hunched with his back pressed against the wall, still not speaking.

"Do it." Dean stares at Castiel, still unable to form a coherent thought beyond the rage he is feeling. "Go on, I'm not going to stop you."  
Castiel closes his eyes and brings his hands up to his face, and a distant part of Dean wonders if Castiel has ever cried – really truly sobbed, not just shed an occasional tear – before.

"That's what I thought," Dean snaps. He turns away and picks up the rifle. He notices Castiel's angel sword lying on the ground next to the bed, and he sticks that through his belt.

And then he walks out the damaged door, closing it behind him as best he can, and hightails it to the shooting range, where he loses himself in the constant rhythm of the gun, and decidedly doesn't think about what he's just done.

*  
When Dean slinks into the kitchen much later, he finds it unoccupied save for Sam – no, for Ezekiel. The electric blue of the angel's grace flashes as Sam enters.

"I repaired the door that you damaged," he says without preamble. "Castiel was too distraught to notice me. I doubt he'll pick up on the change, but if he does, I can see he forgets it soon enough."

Dean stares at the angel as he mindlessly pours out a bowl of cereal for supper. "Why?"

"Because your brother would have noticed the door, if I had done nothing, and he would have asked you about it, and you would have been unable to lie to him. And you know full well that if Sam knows about Castiel's little hissy fit, he would fight against letting Castiel go out on his own. This is the easier option." He frowns at Dean. "You should consider your actions more carefully. Our situation is fragile enough with Castiel around; you have a responsibility to not compromise what we have with such spur-of-the-moment choices."

The speech is cold and calculating, completely inhuman. Dean closes his eyes and wishes that the only other people in the bunker were Sam, Castiel, and Kevin. "Fine," he says. "Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

Ezekiel nods and then, in the blink of an eye, it's only Sam sitting at the table, carefully peeling an orange. "Cereal?" he asks with disapproval. "Dude, I'll make something. Cas is probably hungry too."

"Nah." Dean sits down at the table. His movements all feel slow and deliberate, burdened by the weight of all the things he's keeping secret. "I checked on him earlier. I think he's sleeping things off."

"Oh." Sam frowns, then shrugs. "I can look in on him tonight, I guess."

"If you want to." Dean eats a few spoonfuls, but it's dry and bland-tasting, and he can't really swallow right. He sighs and stands up, pouring the rest back into the bag. "I'm just not that hungry tonight," he says, feeling Sam's eyes on him.

"You feeling sick?"

"No. Just…" Dean runs his fingers through his hair. It's still wet from the shower he took after spending nearly two hours on the shooting range. Droplets of water cling to his fingers, and he absentmindedly wipes his hands on his pants. "I dunno. I think I'll go to bed. It's getting late anyway, isn't it?"

Sam shrugs again, breaking off a segment of his orange. "I haven't been sleeping that much. Haven't needed it I guess."

"Huh. Well, I just wanna hit the hay. Night, Sam."

"Night, Dean."

Dean absentmindedly walks back to his room. As soon as he sits down on his memory-foam mattress, though, he knows that he won't be able to sleep. All he can think about is how devastated Castiel looked when he told him to take the gun, to, to go and fucking _kill himself_ , and what the fuck is _wrong_ with Dean? Shit, he would probably be drinking himself to death if he got dealt Cas's hand.

"Fuck," he mumbles, pacing around the room, and then he repeats the word louder and punches the wall. The pain is sharp and immediate, especially over his knuckles, which are still sensitive from where he pounded against Castiel's door earlier that day. A trickle of blood runs down his index finger.

He stares at the cracked, broken skin for a moment, and then he walks out of his door and up the hall to Castiel's room. This time, the door isn't locked, and Dean lets himself in, even though he really has no right to.

Castiel is in the same place that he was hours ago, all crumpled against the wall. His knees are pulled to his chest, his head lolling back. He tracks Dean warily with reddened eyes as he comes in and shuts the door behind him. He stands over Castiel, just watching him, not really sure what to say.

"What?" Cas asks. His voice is raspy, and Dean figures that he probably hasn't had anything to drink since his crying binge. He's probably on the verge of dehydration, if not fully there already.

"Have you come to order me to go through with… _it_ again? To return my means of ending everything?"

"Shut up," Dean says as he sits on the edge of Castiel's bed. It doesn't escape him that the place where he's sitting, it could have been the sight of… of something very bad if he hadn't intervened when he did. "You're a mess."

"You're bleeding," Cas replies. Dean glances back down at his hands and then shrugs, since it's not as if he can deny it.

They sit in silence for a minute or two, Castiel eventually taking his gaze from Dean and returning to staring vacantly out at the wall across from him. The atmosphere is heavy and tense, and it makes Dean so uncomfortable that he cracks first. "Look, about what I said earlier—"

"You didn't mean it. You were worried about me, and that worry, in the form of anger, was what motivated your words." Cas glances back up at Dean for a second, quirking his lips up in a bitter smile. "Is that it?"

There is something almost mocking about Castiel's words that makes Dean want to indignantly deny it, but, well. Castiel is _right_. So he just nods.

"I figured. I know."

A large part of Dean just wants to nod and say, So, we're good? No harm, no foul? But he isn't so foolish as to think that would be a good idea, and he knows that if in a day from now or a year from now he finds Castiel dead by his own hand, he will undoubtedly blame himself.

So he just waits for a moment longer, parsing through words and phrases of reassurance or _something_ to toss out to Castiel. Everything is somewhat clichéd, and nothing seems to fit.

Then Castiel himself speaks, straightening up and leaning closer to Dean. "You cannot possibly imagine how… devastating it is to know that I will be one of you until I die whatever meaningless and insignificant death I inevitably do. No," he snaps when Dean opens his mouth to protest. "Don't. Humanity is acceptable, even a thing to be revered, when the person experiencing it was… was _meant_ to be human. I was not intended to live in this form. I am not supposed to breath like you, hunger like you, feel like – like humans do. I am _wrong_. Don't you understand?"

Dean tries to choose his next word carefully, but… just… what the hell is he supposed to say to that? "No, Cas, I really don't."

Cas sighs and slumps back against the wall. "It is immaterial."

"You almost just killed yourself, dude. I don't think that's 'immaterial.'"

"Being an angel was… different. I felt differently, I processed things differently. Humans have emotions. Desires."

"So, what? You'll throw everything away just cause you've got a sex drive or something?"

The look that Castiel gives him is loathing, disgust, and hurt all in one. "Get out."

"No. What, is that it? You don't want to be human because you've got a sex drive now?" Castiel looks away, and Dean can't believe it. "Seriously?"

"Of course not! Do you really think that, that something so _trivial_ would make me behave in the way that I did? You _disgust_ me." His face is reddened as he pushes himself up, swaying and pressing a hand to the wall for support.  
Dean stands to and reaches out to support him, his hand falling on Castiel's shoulder. "Hey. No shame in—"

"Whatever you are thinking, it is _wrong_. I am not upset about my humanity because of anything so… animalistic."

"Then _what_?" Unthinking, Dean pushes Castiel into the wall again, though not with so much force as he did the time before – the panic-driven rage of before is now just a churning combination of frustration and worry. "Tell me, Cas. Because I don't think I can help you until you do."  
Castiel stills against the wall. "Let me go."

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

"Dean."

"No." Dean presses forward, grabbing Castiel's wrists in his hand and raising them above his head. "Tell. Me."

"There is nothing _to_ tell—" and as Dean adjusts his position to keep Castiel still, his leg brushes against Cas, and—

_Oh_.

He stares at Castiel, who's red-faced and whose eyes are tightly squeezed shut. "Cas?"

"Leave me be," Cas breathes out. "I do not want to feel; I don't want – I want to be distant, to _love_ without complications and without – without _thought_ of requital—"

"Me?" Dean asks. Belatedly he lets Castiel go and steps away. He carefully keeps his eyes on Castiel's face, and not where he just undeniably felt the press of a hard-on.

"Of course." Castiel opens his eyes and looks at Dean, his face heavy with sarcasm; it brings to mind the first time that he ever got drunk. "Who else?"

Dean closes his eyes, and he knows what he has to do, and he blanks everything else out of his mind. "Castiel."

"What?"

"Take off your shirt."

Castiel stares at him. "I don't want your pity."

"I'm not offering pity." He keeps his gaze calm and straight, ignoring whatever reservations he should have – that this is wrong for Cas, that he hasn't slept with a guy in years. "Tell me I'm wrong, tell me this isn't what you want right now. And if that's the case, I'll leave and we won't talk about this again."

Castiel closes his eyes and swallows. "I'm a mess."

"Doesn't matter."

Castiel holds his gaze. Then, very hesitantly, he begins to unbutton his shirt. He pauses for a second when the deed is done, and then he slowly shrugs this off. Then he just stands there looking at Dean.

"You sure you want this, Cas?"

It's hard to see in the darkness of the bunker, but Dean can make out the bob of Castiel's Adam's apple as he swallows. "More than you know."

Dean nods. Then he steps forward and he kisses Castiel. Cas's lips are dry from the crying, and Dean can feel dried tear streaks as he cups his face, but that doesn't really matter to him.

He guides Castiel to the bed, pushing him down and straddling him with his knees. "Stay still," he says, and Castiel freezes.

Dean kisses him on the lips again, tracing his tongue along their curve. Castiel moans quietly, and Dean wonders how many times he's done this – not that long, he would bet.

He lets his lips trail down Castiel's neck, sucking and marking his pale skin. Cas has been dutiful to Dean's request for motionlessness, but he stirs and jumps a little when Dean uses his teeth close to his collarbone.

"Dean," he murmurs, and Dean presses a finger to his lips.

His lips move down Castiel's bare chest, tracing the lines of his ribs. He reaches down and squeezes Castiel's crotch, awkwardly unzipping and unbuckling his jeans with one hand. He tugs down Castiel's boxers, and Cas arches up as he does.

Dean kisses the tip of Castiel's cock and then takes it into his mouth, his hands rubbing circles over Castiel's hips as he does. He can hear Cas making small gasps, can feel as he bucks up. Dean takes the length of his cock in, tracing his tongue along its veins.

It doesn't take long for Castiel to come with a quiet gasp, his hands clenching and pulling the white bed-sheets up tight. Dean swallows down the come and doesn’t push himself upwards until Castiel has slumped back on the mattress, breathing hard.

Dean swings his legs to the side so he's sitting while Castiel lies there. He tries to ignore the magnitude of what he's just done – fuck the consequences, if this'll keep Cas going for another day. Fuck it, because any talk would have been meaningless comfort, and Cas wouldn't have believed it, and Dean knows that. Don't actions speak louder than words, anyway?

But in the darkness he can feel Castiel watching him. Then Cas asks quietly, "Did that… mean something? Anything? Or was it just you trying to ground me, or reassure me of… something?" He pauses and then says, "Was that a sign of, of requital? Or was it something else altogether?"

It's the one question that he doesn't want to hear. Dean closes his eyes and doesn't answer.

"I think I'd like you to leave," Cas says, and Dean gets up and walks out the door, quietly shutting it behind him. Ezekiel's words, _You should consider your actions more carefully,_ are ringing in his ears. Castiel is sitting in his room with no more hope than before Dean intervened, and Dean can feel his own hard-on straining in his pants, and he doesn't even know where he stands, and nothing is really okay.


End file.
